


Debrief

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, Fic, Gen, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:37:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal brings Clinton up to speed. </p><p>Episode tag for 4.11. (SPOILERS!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debrief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mergatrude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mergatrude/gifts).



> Thanks to mergatrude for beta.

Clinton was twenty minutes into a bout of Wii boxing when there was a knock on his front door. He paused the game, wiped his face on his shirt and went to answer, hoping it was someone looking for his upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Rosado. She hosted four different book clubs and a monthly wine-tasting event, and new members sometimes mistook his apartment for hers. But it wasn't a stranger this time—it was Caffrey, standing on the doorstep with a bulging shopping bag in one hand and a bottle of forged Shackleton in the other. 

"I'm interrupting," said Neal, taking in Clinton's disheveled appearance at a glance.

Clinton wiped the sweat out of his eyes again and figured twenty minutes on the Wii would have to do. Neal looked as immaculate as ever in his suit, but his eyes were slightly red-rimmed, and if he'd turned up here unannounced, on whatever pretext, chances were he needed to talk. Clinton waved him inside. "What's going on?"

Unlike last time Neal had been here, during the Barrett-Dunne case, he didn't immediately move to make himself at home. "It's about time someone filled you in on what's really going on," he said, looking serious. "I told Peter I'd do it."

"Okay." Clinton had no idea what Neal was talking about, but he gladly accepted the whiskey bottle and took it to the kitchen to get glasses. He had proper tumblers now, bought for just such an eventuality, but when he took two down from the shelf, Neal grimaced and held up a hand.

"Water for me," he said. "I may have—over-indulged the last couple of days."

Not in the mood to drink alone, Clinton set the bottle down unopened. "Forgery is a painful business, huh?" he joked. 

"You have no idea." Neal hefted his shopping bag onto the counter. "Have you eaten?"

"Two slices of cold pizza count?" Clinton had intended to call for Thai food once he'd finished his workout. 

"Not even close." Neal still seemed tense, but he was covering pretty well with a facsimile of his usual friendly chitchat. "You once said you liked risotto, so—" He started pulling ingredients out of the bag like a magician doing a hat trick. Clinton half expected a white rabbit to follow the chives and Arborio rice.

"Okay, but first tell me 'what's really going on.'" Clinton swiped the back of his wrist across his forehead and folded his arms. 

Neal paused with a red onion in his hand and ducked his head. "It's a long story. Dennis Flynn Jnr wasn't just a whiskey forger. He also murdered a—friend of mine."

Clinton caught the hesitation. "A friend."

"An old family friend." Neal raised his chin. "And Flynn tried to kill my father."

"Your _father_?" Clinton didn't bother to hide his surprise. He'd never considered Neal's family—not his real family. The guy had no past, no ties to anyone except his immediate circle of friends and Peter Burke, as far as Clinton could tell.

"Yeah, he—"

"On second thought, you get started with the risotto. I'll get cleaned up." This sounded like it was going to take a while. Apparently, when it came to Caffrey, the music box was just the beginning. Complicated conspiracies seemed to followed the guy around. Clinton hoped it would make more sense over dinner, once Neal had settled down enough to lay it out clearly. 

Clinton grabbed a towel from the hall closet and had a lightning-fast shower, then hurried into the bedroom to pull on clean clothes. By the time he got back to the kitchen, the air was fragrant with the aroma of home-cooked food. 

Clinton succumbed to temptation and poured himself a generous measure of the best forged whiskey money couldn't buy. "You're sure you don't want any."

"It would only lead to more pickle juice," said Neal, looking faintly ill.

"So why bring it?" Clinton was pretty sure that if Neal were only here to explain about Dennis Flynn, he wouldn't be going to the trouble of laying on gourmet food and liquor. "What's all this in aid of?"

"I owe you." Neal made a face. 

"For?"

"You know that rat?" Neal was still stirring the risotto, but his gaze was fixed somewhere in the air between him and Clinton. He looked uncomfortable. "At the office, last week."

"The rat?" Clinton's skin crawled at the reminder. He'd called two separate exterminator companies, and neither could find any evidence of vermin in the FBI building, but that hadn't really set his mind at ease. "What does the rat have to do with anything?"

"He belongs to Mozzie. His name's Percy." 

Clinton stared, revulsion giving way to retrospective embarrassment. He was a grown man, ex-Navy, a seasoned FBI agent, and he'd made a spectacle of himself yelling about a pet rat. His cheeks heated at the thought. He should have known it had something to do with Caffrey. Clinton swallowed a mouthful of whiskey without really tasting it and tried to put the pieces together. "And the rat had something to do with Dennis Flynn and—your father?"

"Yeah," said Neal. "It did, actually. We needed a surveillance order to—"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," interrupted Clinton. "Stop." He had another sip of whiskey, slower this time. Savoring it, because while it might not be the real thing, it still tasted damned good. Caffrey sure knew how to apologize. Clinton's embarrassment faded into a warm alcoholic buzz. "How about you finish that—" He gestured to encompass the tomatoes and the chopping board adorned with neat piles of fresh parsley and other herbs. "—and then you start from the beginning."

"Sorry, I wasn't explaining very well," said Neal. "It's kind of complicated."

"More complicated than a billionaire Ponzi schemer's plot to uncover a U-boat full of stolen art?" Clinton teased. He didn't officially know what had happened to the art after the warehouse on the docks exploded, but he wasn't blind. He had his theories.

Neal smiled for the first time since he'd walked in the door. "It's definitely up there."

Clinton laughed under his breath and fished around in his cutlery drawer for the good silverware, keeping up the back and forth, glad that Neal seemed to be relaxing and glad, too, to be brought into the loop—however complicated and dangerous this year's crazy conspiracy was going to be.

 

END


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